


I Personally Will Stab You in the Eye with a Foreign Object

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Past Relationship(s), The Consequences of Breaking a Crime Lord's Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-14 04:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: The guns lie on the Continental bedspread, like courses lined up on a white table cloth;aperitivo, antipasto, primo, secondo, dolce, a banquet in black steel and bullet casings.





	I Personally Will Stab You in the Eye with a Foreign Object

**Author's Note:**

  * For [track_04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/gifts).

The guns lie on the Continental bedspread, like courses lined up on a white table cloth; _aperitivo_, _antipasto, primo, secondo, dolce, _a banquet in black steel and bullet casings. Missing from the lineup is the sommelier’s ‘finest cutlery’. Not forgotten, surely. John lets the door click closed behind him, frowning. He makes it to the edge of the bed before he spots the missing knife.

“Very nice,” Santino says. Long legs stretched out in front of him, slumped relaxed on one of the couches. He’s lost his coat and jacket; his shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows. Forearms bare, the veins of his wrists on display like artwork on a gallery wall. He has the knife in his hands. He holds it like a man with plenty of experience in its use. “I have always been impressed with the armoury here; it makes me wonder if we should host our own Continental back in Napoli. But that would require some diplomacy, you know how it is. The sharing of territory. And I have never been good at sharing.”

“I thought you were in New York.”

“I was,” Santino agrees. “And now I am here. This is my country, John; my home. You of all people should understand the draw of a home- ah. But not anymore. _Scusami_. I may have overreacted.”

John doesn’t take the bait, though it costs him an effort to hold still. He glances briefly at the guns. The boxes of ammunition.

And, placed at the end of the lineup where the knife should be, the marker. A sour note where sweet belongs. A reminder.

“I’m glad the dog was not hurt,” Santino says. “It was my main concern; if I had killed it, I would have been heartbroken.”

“Sure you would.”

“But it’s true. And rest assured, John; if you do not survive your…visit to my sister, I will give your dog a long and happy life. It is the least I can do.” Santino runs a thumb down the middle of the knife. “The last favour I offer you.”

John tears himself away from the weapons. Moves to the couches, though his skin tingles with every step, his nerves alight in warning. He ignores them. He has to. Has to trust that the Continental’s rule will be respected, and the logic that tells him there is no reason for Santino to try anything here. Not when he wants something. Not when a flimsy piece of bloodstained metal binds John to him like a cuff around his wrist.

“No one should do me favours,” John says. “It never ends well. For either of us.” He stops behind the couch, resting his hands on the back of it, one on either side of Santino’s shoulders.

Santino doesn’t bother to look up. If he feels the threat implicit in the proximity, he doesn’t show it. “No. And if I had known that five years ago, perhaps I would have made a different choice when you came to me for help. I could have refused. I should have. And you should have asked someone else.”

“I trusted you,” John says. He can hear the disbelief in his tone; the muted shock, _you burnt my house down. You attacked me. I trusted you. _“Because you told me I deserved a chance at freedom. At love.”

Santino laughs, briefly and without humour. The knife slots neatly into the palm of his left hand, the ribbing indenting his skin. “_I_ loved you. Did you realise?”

John hesitates. It doesn’t last, but he’s ashamed that it happens at all. “I…yes.”

“And is that the reason you came to me for help? Because you knew that I would give you anything, even if it meant giving you up forever?”

“_No_.”

“Good,” Santino says. “I wanted to hear you say it; to see if I believed you. I think that I do. _Va bene_. That is one less regret between us.” He stares down at the knife, playing lamplight over steel. His fingernails are short, slightly tattered. John breathes deep.

“It wasn’t going to work,” he says at last. “I wanted…a life. Retirement. To bury the weapons and try to find out what kind of man I’d be without them. If I could be happy. And I was.” He’s still angry; the fire, the ashes of his life, they drift into sight with every movement Santino makes. A petty retaliation, a knife jabbed deep between the ribs. It’s so typical of Santino, who has never known how not to take things personally. And yet.

And yet, beneath the anger there is shame. Yes, he knew. Yes, it coloured his choice to go to Santino, when Marcus would have helped instead. Yes, it was easier to bury the guilt with his guns and gold coins and a layer of cement mix, knowing the consequences would be suffered by someone he’d never see again. The man he was at the time didn’t care. The man he is now cares too much.

“I am truly sorry,” he says, and means it. “For what it’s worth. If it’s worth anything to you.”

“It is,” Santino says. “And it makes things easier, I think. What happens next.”

“I know you’re planning something.”

“Of course. You always knew me too well.”

Against his better judgment, John drops his hands to Santino’s shoulders. He’s uncomfortable with how familiar it feels. Some memories won’t stay buried. Some dig their own way to the surface. A part of him expects Santino to tilt his head back and lean into John’s hold, the way he would have done before. When they still trusted each other enough to expose their throats.

“Please,” he says heavily. “It’s not too late to call off the marker. Take it back, and I’ll…forgive the fire. I’ll accept that I hurt you first. Call it even. We can still walk away from this.”

He knows the futility of asking, from the way Santino refuses to look at him. From the knife; the way he curls his fingers around it, and it’s hard to say which of them he’d most like to use it on. His wrists are very pale.

“What was it you said to me, when I came to your home?” Santino says. “_I can’t help you_. And you were right. I don’t need your help; I just need you to repay what you owe. What happens after that is up to fate.”

_I’m going to kill you,_ he doesn’t say, but the knife has edges like the sharp lines of a relationship cut short, and his tone drips something toxic, contemptuous. Hatred, maybe. A kind of rage John has only ever seen in the mirror.

He takes his hands from Santino’s shoulders. They feel too empty for the absence, but he has plenty of guns to fill them with. He’ll survive.

“I need to get ready,” he says. “You know where the door is.”

“Of course.” Santino flips the knife. He turns, the blade held between his fingers, and offers it hilt first. John takes it carefully. He wonders if Santino is expecting to be cut. If he’s hoping for it. Or if he's satisfied with the damage that's already been done. “You’ll need this, I’m sure.”

“Maybe.”

“_Buona fortuna_. I hope she dies well.”

“She will.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but true nonetheless. Santino stands abruptly. John tenses as he stalks past, but Santino doesn’t even look at him. He heads for the door, pausing only to grab the marker from its unwanted place on John’s mattress. It’s finished, then. Whatever he came to Rome for, whatever he felt couldn’t be said over the phone- it’s done. Either he got what he wanted or he gave up. John doesn’t ask. He wouldn’t begin to know how. Tucking the knife into a pocket, he turns his attention to the guns spread out across the bed. The sight of them is an eerie comfort. He’s more whole with them than without.

“John?”

John turns. He’s not sure what he’s expecting. After five years, he struggles to read the expression on Santino’s face. Maybe that’s for the best.

“Keep the knife close,” Santino says from the doorway. “Because the next time we meet, I’m going to shove it through your eye. And then, maybe, we will be even.”

He’s gone before John can come up with a response.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 300bpm flash exchange. The song prompt was:  
[_Foreign Object_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQNv2sY7Ge0) \- The Mountain Goats  
...I did not intend for it to get this sad, wow


End file.
